This story is set in the late summer of 1629 so it is pre-season 1 and our musketeers are embroiled in another adventure of derring-do. It falls between the events on Ré in 1627 (recounted in 'Retribution') and a year before 'Renegade'.

Disclaimer - I do not own the main characters; they belong to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC but many other minor characters that I have created and who have appeared in my other longer works may make an appearance here also. I try, as far as possible, to keep to the canon of the books, the television series and the details that I have created.

Thank you so much for the final feedback on 'Redemption'. I tried to message all but some were guests so I hope you are reading this. I really appreciated all comments.

I must, though, express a massive 'thank you' to Mountain Cat who has been my sounding board from the inception of this story and throughout its development. She has kept my thoughts straight and my planning clear. I set myself a new target with each story and this one has to be, "Just how complicated and convoluted can I make it?"

I hope you enjoy it!

CHAPTER 1

Captain Tréville raised his hand and that was enough to bring the patrol to a halt behind him on the dusty road. Pulling out a handkerchief from a pocket, he wiped it around the back of his neck and over his face, grimacing at the feeling of escaping sweat trickling down the inside of his shirt.

Pulling his hat down low over his eyes, he dared to look up at the sky; a clear blue with not even the tiniest wisp of cloud scudding across it. It was not yet midday and the temperatures were already relentlessly climbing. Taking that into consideration and seeing the dust clouds kicked up by the horses' hooves, no-one would believe that there had just been several days of repeated summer storms and torrential rain, all of which had done little to clear the air.

The water had failed to penetrate the hard-packed earth in some areas whilst in others, where the soil was a glutinous clay, the heavy rains had transformed roads into rivers of thick cloying mud that had their mounts whinnying nervously and picking their way carefully. If their progress was severely hampered, it was not surprising that the Spanish Ambassador had been delayed to the point of arousing some concerns. Méndez had been expected to arrive in Paris two days earlier and there had been no advance messengers received at court to either explain his tardiness or herald his approach.

Tréville was uneasy, an instinct borne of years of experience which had initiated this patrol riding out to meet the Ambassador – or determine the reason for his delay. His gut-feeling and the importance of the Spaniard had made the decision easy for him to lead his men himself. The fact that his three best men were also gone from the garrison whilst involved in another aspect of this clandestine mission did not help so that he was finding it increasingly difficult to sit at his desk attending to paperwork or be at the palace, watching his impatient monarch pacing the floor and demanding why the Ambassador was not there right at that moment.

Cardinal Richelieu was not helping matters with his sly insinuations about the incompetence of Musketeers as the hour of the men's anticipated return had also passed. Tréville had objected, pointing out that an exact time of arrival was both impossible and unreasonable for there could be any number of explanations behind their being detained. His concerns for any of his men only realistically began when a delay ran into two days or more if they were travelling far beyond Paris as was happening on this occasion. The unit had ridden north to Lille, just south of the border and however hard a man tried, there was no accounting for inclement weather, a bridge washed out that could add nearly a day to a journey in the search for another crossing, or a horse becoming lame so that a replacement was necessary. He dared not allow his mind to think of potential illness, injury or their being subjected to an attack – not yet.

Now, the Captain hoped that the mud had been the only thing to slow the Ambassador's carriage and his entourage. Méndez was bound for Paris with a document agreed and signed by Philip, the Spanish King, to maintain peace between the two countries. There was opposition on both sides to the Treaty, but it would be beneficial to the nations to avoid an outright declaration of war. Neither could bear a strain on their coffers and it would put Louis' Spanish Queen in an invidious position if war began against her brother. The Spanish, already embroiled in conflict, could ill-afford spreading their forces more thinly and the French were still recovering from the need to subdue the Huguenots and fend off English involvement.

He sat in the saddle awaiting the rider who approached at a fast pace; he was one of two who had been sent ahead as scouts. Even as the man reined in level with him, Tréville knew from his expression that the news was not good.

"Well?" he demanded gruffly.

Claude Béranger, one of the most senior Musketeers in age still on active service, shook his head. "They're about half a league ahead. No survivors. I left Sebastien there guardin' the scene."

Tréville nodded his approval at the older man's foresight. "No sign of those responsible?"

"Nothin'," Claude answered. "They'd be long gone by now if they've any sense. Looks like they were attacked a few hours ago – they could've been on the road at first light - or maybe even late yesterday. The Ambassador might've been makin' for that town we passed a while ago to spend the night."

The Captain thought for a moment, his mouth set in a grim line. "We had better go and investigate then."

The column moved on quietly, the men intuitively picking up on the Captain's mood from his exchange with the seasoned soldier, even though they could not hear what had been said.

"Round the next bend," Claude warned eventually. "Road's quite wide there. Two carriages or carts could easily pass but the trees come down both sides to line the road."

"Good place to set an ambush then; plenty of cover for an element of surprise and yet some space for manoeuvrability so they don't get in each other's way," Tréville commented, bracing himself for the horror he was about to see. "Any indication as to how many there might have been?"

"Plenty of 'em but nothing exact," Claude answered. "The trees meant the ground hadn't 'ad time to dry out completely after all that rain. It's churned up badly."

The scene was just as Claude had described when they came upon it with sweeping bends coming into and leading from the area. There was a terrible stillness and no sounds; the birds had either fallen into a respectful silence or taken flight, refusing to stay near the atrocity. All the horses – the mounts of the escort and the four that should have been pulling the Ambassador's carriage – were gone. Even Sebastien stood without moving, pistol in hand as he watched their approach.

The horseless carriage looked odd, abandoned as it was in the middle of the road. Painted black with a red and gold trim, one of its doors was carelessly thrown wide open, the crest emblazoned on it speaking of the importance of the man it carried.

Tréville's eyes took in the sight and he did a quick count of the bodies strewn around the carriage and along the road.

"Wait," he ordered the men behind him as he swiftly dismounted and picked his way carefully amongst the dead, eyes continuing to dart everywhere for any potential evidence and ascertaining how the victims died.

Fifteen men in different aspects of death; not for them the comfort of a soft pillow and a held hand as they gasped their last. The ends they met were sudden, brutal, violent. Many had been shot at close range, others stabbed with swords or with throats cut wide open, their corpses collapsed in untidy heaps or with limbs spread-eagled as if they were marionettes with their strings rudely cut.

Tréville frowned. There was something wrong with what he was seeing.

Méndez had suspected that those opposed to the treaty would take any steps possible to prevent it from coming to fruition. Hence his convoluted journey. He had sailed up the coast to the Spanish Netherlands and crossed into France with his own escort and was expected to convene with Tréville's men at Lille. It was not to be a clandestine meeting; indeed, it was anticipated that they would possibly be under surveillance from those who were intent on destroying the treaty and that the Musketeers would embark upon an equally dangerous return journey, drawing some of the attention away from the Ambassador. If intercepted, they would be found to be carrying a document - but it would be a false one.

The security detail selected to accompany the Ambassador were not merely for appearances sake; they would have been selected for their prowess in defending the man. They were soldiers, just as the Musketeers were; finely honed, skilled military men who would not baulk in the face of an attack. Similarly, Tréville expected them to have been imbued with some instinct and a sense of urgency.

He stood in the middle of the carnage and surveyed it again, his unease growing. Not a single man had had the chance to draw a weapon. The number of pistols still clipped on belts did not equate to the number of fallen men and none was discarded on the ground, suggesting that others were still housed in the saddle holsters of the missing mounts. If the attackers had wanted to make off with additional weaponry and ammunition, why had they not stripped the remaining men of their armaments?

All swords were still sheathed, caught in the tangle of lifeless limbs.

These men had offered up no resistance at all, which could only suggest two things. Firstly, they had been attacked by a force much larger than their own, the perpetrators lying in wait in the trees and ranged along both sides of the road so that they could launch an extensive and simultaneous assault.

Or, secondly, they knew their attackers and had allowed them to get close – too close!

Tréville knew that, at some point, he had to inspect the inside of the carriage, to look upon the man who had been heading towards Paris in an attempt to avert war, but the Musketeer Captain was still held a fascinated captive by the incongruity of what littered the road.

"Several of these lyin' over the ground," Claude suddenly said at his side, holding out a hand. A number of coins lay in his palm.

Tréville picked them over and frowned.

"French?" he questioned? "Where abouts?"

"All over," the old soldier replied. "No two were lyin' together. They were dropped, random like."

"Careless!" Tréville noted, his suspicions aroused.

"My thoughts exactly," Claude said. "Far too careless."

"Like they were dropped on purpose?"

Claude merely raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Careless or convenient."

"They couldn't have been dropped by a local man using the road?" Tréville wondered.

Snorting, Claude turned the coins over in his hand. "The odd one maybe but they were too spread out to be explained by a hole in a pocket or purse. Besides, we might not think there's much 'ere but to a man labourin' in the country, 'e wouldn't just drop 'em 'an leave 'em there. Even if 'e did 'ave an 'ole in 'is pocket, I doubt they'd be scattered all about where I found 'em; unless 'e was well in 'is cups, of course. Then I could understand 'ow he'd miss 'em an' how he weaved 'is way along."

Both men stood in a thoughtful silence, absorbing the significance of what they had been discussing and hinting. Not for the first time did Tréville find himself appreciating the powers of observation of the older man and wishing that Béranger had accepted the rank of lieutenant when he had initially offered it to him following the events of the siege of the Îl de Ré two years earlier.

When his then second-in-command, Savatier, had turned traitor and was lost to the sea, Tréville had two names shortlisted as replacement. The first was Claude, a seasoned soldier with many years of experience. The other was a young man who had been commissioned for a little over two years but who had demonstrated on more than one occasion a strategic, logical mind, a flair for leadership and an awe-inspiring ability with a sword in his hand.

Yet for all that, Athos (for that was his name) did not have a belief in his own strengths. Haunted by personal demons and with a penchant for finding solace in a wine bottle, he maintained an infuriating silence about what troubled him, even refusing to divulge anything of importance to the two men who had worried at the defensive wall he had erected around himself. By sheer persistence, Aramis and Porthos had chipped away at the barricade and wormed their way into his confidence and Tréville had found it heart-warming to see the intense bond of brotherhood and friendship that had been the result.

So, Claude had refused the Captain and Athos had not been deemed ready – not yet – but Tréville had continued quietly to mentor him, entrusting more challenging missions to him and his friends and watching as they easily deferred to his leadership. Tréville knew, in time, that Athos would be ready to take on that promotion and ultimately, perhaps, take over from him in assuming the mantle of Captain. But that would not be for many years for Trèville was not prepared to step down in the near future.

Besides, Athos, Aramis and Porthos were his three men who were overdue and he was trying very hard not to begin worrying about their well-being. There were many things that could have delayed them; he had already listed those possible reasons in his head.

That was before he was confronted by such carnage as the slaughter of the Ambassador and his men.